


Fic:  Let The Serpent Sing

by ruric



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Ficathon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-31
Updated: 2005-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-07 21:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during 5.21 Power Play - spinning off from the line Gunn delivers in that episode: "We all know how this goes, Spike beats you to a bloody pulp, you beg for mercy and we get what we came for."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fic:  Let The Serpent Sing

His cell is an almost featureless box five paces wide and seven long; smooth, white walls, ceiling and floor, and one wall of clear, soundproofed, unbreakable glass. He’d heard about these cells, they’d been discussed in hushed whispers by his colleagues when he was a junior, rumors of the mysterious, basement-level prison cells and what they might contain. He’d had their existence established, as one of the many facilities at his disposal, when his status was confirmed by Holland, but he’d never had the need to use them, never seen them, never been in one of them.

A lavatory and sink are mounted on one wall, he wasn’t surprised at the lack of a mirror, with a single bunk fixed on the opposite wall. A thin foam mattress is glued to the bunk but there are no blankets, nothing he could tear apart and use. Bright overhead lighting is switched on and off at random times depending on how much they want to try annoy him. They play with the lights to destroy his sleep patterns and disorientate him, and to a certain extent it’s worked. He no longer knows, or cares, whether it’s night or day.

They’ve given him nothing. No pens or paper, no books, and the overalls he wears have no zipper or buttons, nothing sharp he could pull off and use as a weapon to turn against his guards or his own flesh.

He’s fed through a hatch low down in the glass, again at random times so there’s no chance to establish a routine, nothing to focus on. He never sees his jailers. The lights dim to darkness and when they cycle up to sudden brightness, leaving him blinking away tears, there are two plastic bowls on the floor inside the glass. One contains water and the other a thick, white, tasteless gruel.

He eats and drinks what they provide, when they provide it. Licking his fingers clean when he’s finished before washing the bowls in the sink and placing them back by the hatch, because this is the only distraction they’ve given him from the monotony of his days. Even the air smells sterile.

Three years ago the waiting would’ve driven him insane.

He would’ve tried to fight his way out: throwing himself against the glass until he was bruised, breaking his nails to the quick, leaving his fingers a bloodied mess trying pry the bunk from the wall or claw the sink free; screaming and yelling, demanding their attention until his voice was raw.

But he’s learned patience in the time he’s spent away from LA.

Months staring into the faces of the carved wooden idols in the richly decorated temples of India, led to the discovery of a peace and tranquility in their painted and silk draped figures. The heavy scents of sandalwood and incense surrounding him, until he felt drugged and separated from the world.

Then he’d learned true patience, sitting in an isolated monastery high in the Himalayas, huddled inside bright saffron colored robes, the whiplash of the wind burning his skin, his newly shaven head, shivering helplessly with his jaw locked to stop his teeth from chattering. Endless weeks spent waiting for recognition from the serene old man seated in front of him, black eyes shining at him from folded, wrinkled skin, parchment thin and yellowed with age.

Time is a construct – let it govern you and you’ve lost the battle before you’ve even started.

And so he waits. Sitting cross-legged on the bunk, his back leaning against the wall, one hand resting on his thigh the other curled in his lap. He amuses himself by picking out the fingering for imaginary chords, conjuring music for a guitar he doubts he’ll ever hold in his hands again.

He waits, listening to the music in his head, until his jailers arrive, until cold metal closes around his wrists and he’s ushered into yet another barren room. The gray walls here a contrast to the brightness of his cell, the table, the chairs, the mirror in one wall all screaming out its function - interrogation room.

Their hands are rough on his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin as his silent warders push him down to sit. Wide leather straps bind him at wrist and ankle to the chair, but he can’t help the smile twisting his lips when he shakes his hair back out of his eyes and looks into the mirror, because the waiting is over. He’ll play the role he’s been cast and play it to the best of his ability understanding what rests on the outcome.

He doesn’t even bother to look around when the door creaks open.

Their feet scuffing on the floor, the way they carry themselves, heads slightly bowed, tell him more than words ever could as they move to sit opposite him. He shifts back in the chair, hips and ass sliding down, body relaxing into an easy sprawl wishing his feet were free so he could cross his ankles on the table, letting disdain ooze from every pore.

Tilting his chin up to look at them, conscious of the challenge in that one simple move, he doesn’t really need to see their eyes, he can smell the desperation rolling off them. The smile that lifts his lips is real, he’s always played the game, always enjoyed the playing of it, even when the stakes are so high.

“Well if it ain’t Harpo, Grouch and Chico…what can I do for you boys?”

Lips smashed against his teeth, his head snapping back, blood sliding down his throat as the chair rocks onto its back legs, no chance for him to try and counterbalance, a sickening lurch deep in his gut as it topples over. The world explodes in jagged shards of white lightning when his head hits the floor, not sure whether he goes out or not, blinking and trying to focus, blinking again, seeing the red splash of his blood, vivid against the gray concrete.

“Was that really necessary?” clipped vowels too loud, too close to his ear, as hands curl over his shoulders and around his arms. Closing his eyes against roiling dizziness and a room spinning wildly as they right the chair, setting it back on all four legs. His tongue exploring the deep cut on his lip, the iron-filing taste of blood filling his mouth with moisture.

“Didn’t like his tone. Mr-Know-It-All over there should maybe think to keeping a civil tongue in his head.”

Odd that from everything he’s forgotten or buried the thing he least recalled was how fast vampires can move when provoked. Turning his head to spit blood and mucus at Spike’s feet, he feels his grin go feral.

“I can’t talk if you break my jaw.”

Spike leans forward, hands set wide on the table and if Spike turns he’s gonna spit in his face and no mistake. “There are other things we can break besides your jaw, mate.”

Weeks in the room and now he craves sensation, any sensation, pain or pleasure he doesn’t really care, but pain will make it more believable.

“Go ahead, have yourselves a party.”

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

One second to be conscious of the concrete under his hip and shoulder before the tidal wave of pain slams into him and rolls him, robbing him of breath and sight. Gentle hands under his head as he blinks the sting of blood and sweat from his eyes, turning slightly, the greenish tone of the palm under his cheek confirming that it’s Lorne's hands that soothe and support.

“How are we ever going to get answers if we beat him…”

“Shut up. He’s still conscious.” The scrape of a boot heel on the floor adding to the pounding in his head, and he can feel the shadow cast across his body as Gunn bends over him. “Fetch the Shaman, Spike.”

There’s a dull, heavy ache where he took punches to belly and ribs, the sharp stabbing pain with every attempt at breath telling him something’s seriously wrong or broken inside. Tries to curl his hand around the arm of the chair, the lancing fire from knuckles through wrist to his shoulder reminding him of the futility of the gesture, each finger having been systematically broken. Not surprised that they’d go this far, only that it was Wes who helped Spike to do it, seems that somewhere along the line the ex-Watcher grew a set.

The rattle in his chest, the bubble of blood at his mouth means he hasn’t got long and he breathes short and shallow trying to ride out the pain threatening to drag him under. Knowledge comes with a price, he’d paid dearly for what’s inside his head, and if they want it, they have to work for it too.

“How long do you think you can hold out Lindsey?”

Blinking until he can see the darkness that lives in Wes’s eyes, swallowing and finding enough breath for a response.

“Long enough.”

Elegant fingers reach out to push sweat-dampened hair away, to tuck it behind his ear. Wes leans closer still, the tickle of warm breath against his skin and words whispered into him.

“We’ll heal you and then we’ll do this tomorrow and the day after and the day after that…until we have what we need.”

They’ll get what they need, eventually, but they’ll pay for it. His head rocks back into Lorne's hands, turning until his lips are almost close enough to brush Wes’s jaw, and he's got just enough left to get out two final words as his vision hazes to gray.

“I know.”

~ fin ~

**Author's Note:**

> Written on the fly and far too fast for the [TSP All Hallow's Eve Everyone Macks on Lindsey ficathon](http://www.livejournal.com/community/hallows_eve_fic/).


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